Back to Black
by EchoFallsFromGrace
Summary: 1930s AU. A Rizzoli clan member has been shot execution style, and Angela Rizzoli is convinced that one faction of Boston is responsible for the death. Jane is sent on the trail to avenge her family, but what she doesn't know is that the rabbit hole goes a whole lot deeper than she expected. The Rizzolis VS the Isles in an all out gang war. M for language, situations, and..Rizzles?
1. Chapter 1

**Rizzoli and Isles do not belong to me!**

Angela Rizzoli cried softly and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, her hot tears mixing with the cold rain falling from the gray Boston sky. A beefy hand belonging to Vince Korsak rested on her shoulders, moving once in a while to pat her reassuringly. Jane wished she was courageous enough to hold her own mother in her arms, but the body between them and her pride prevented her from doing so.

Frankie Rizzoli's angelic, boyish face gazed up at them from inside the coffin. Whoever had trussed him up for his funeral had done a damn fine job, making him look as alive as he had been just a few days before, but that fact made Jane's hands curl into fists. Her little brother was dead, and no amount of make up could change that, and nothing could ever hide the bullet hole in his head that had gone in execution style.

"Janie." Her mother's voice rang her out of her reverie, and she looked up to gaze into Angela's puffy, red eyes, lined with hours worth of grief and denial.

"Yeah ma?"

"You find out who did this, you get me?" She spoke harshly, her small, dainty fingers tightening their grip on her gloves, anger swallowing the sadness. Besides her, Korsak tensed, the arm comforting her mother falling to limply to his side. "You get out there and you find my baby's murderer, and you bring 'em back to me, _understood_?"

Jane merely nodded.

"It's that damn Irish gang. I'm sure of it." Her ma shook her head. "You find that bastard. And you save him for me." Her aging mother turned back to Frankie, tears once again starting to fall almost rhythmically down her face. Korsak shot Jane a pleading look, one asking for peace and quiet for the grieving lady. She gave it willingly.

Her boots punched holes in the wet earth as she walked away from her brother's early grave. Her mind raced at a hundred a minute over the blur that had been the last few days, the week Frankie had died. He had been fine Monday, alive and kicking and drinking shots with her at their speakeasy, and dead on Tuesday, his body already cold to the touch when her boys had found him by the Boston shore, a hole in his head, his eyes dead blue with a look of pure terror and astonishment. She felt responsible. She'd left him that night to go see a friend of hers, and hadn't seen him home, instead had let him waltz away, a dame underneath his arm, a bottle of whiskey in hand. He had looked happy enough. _Are you happy where you are now?_

She glanced up to spy Barry Frost leaning against a tree, a cigarette lit between his brown lips. He picked it and threw it down on the ground, his heel coming on it to make sure it tapped out, and he fell into step with her.

"Ya think it's them?" His tenor voice played around the fog that was her mind, and she shrugged, unsure of what to say. He played with the lapel of his suit."Ma does." He added.

She relished the way he said it so casually. _Ma._ That was her name to their little band of misfits. She wasn't known as Mrs Rizzoli or Angela, just as ma, to everyone, even the cops. They didn't dare call her anything else, it was both a nickname and a title. Mess with her kids and you'd end up at the bottom of the harbor, that's what it screamed. And someone had dared to mess with Frankie, going as far as ending his short, little life. Whoever had done it, though, wouldn't be swimming with the fish. No, whoever the culprit was would be in for a very unpleasant few nights, depending on how long Angela carried on the fun. And Jane knew that she'd help, however gruesome the torture ended up being.

"I miss him." Frost sighed, cutting her musings short. "Is that weird, one fella sayin' that 'bout another fella?" He asked, gazing at her from beneath his fedora.

"No." She shook her head. "It means you got a heart of gold."

He smiled at that, the first real smile he'd pulled since the news, and a blush crept up his dark skin. "Ah, you messing with me."

"Only a bit." She admitted.

"She really wants us to find his killer."

"If your only son had just died, wouldn't you want to?" She asked him.

He smirked. "Only son, good one Rizzoli."

"I don't count Tommy. He ain't half a man. And it's been a year since we saw him. He don't mean shit to me."

Frost paused to think, his brown eyes searching hers. "Do you think he knows?"

She snorted. "My brother ain't smart, I'll give you that. But he ain't stupid to the point where he can't read the newspaper." She folded her arms in front of her chest. "Believe me, he knows."

"That ain't right, not showing up for a funeral." He grimaced. He looked down, fiddling with his hands. "That was nice, by the way. The memorial you and Korsak gave, I mean."

"I promise you right now, if you're next, I'll do your eulogy."

"Aw, shit Rizzoli. Don't go there." Barry's face scrunched up.

She punched his arm playfully. "I didn't mean it, buddy. I'll take the bullet first. I did last time, 'member?"

"Yeah yeah." He grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

They fell into an uneasy silence. Jane Rizzoli and Barry Frost had been friends and partners for years. They knew everything about each other, down to where they got their socks. But never before had a tragedy so close to home and heart struck, and thus Jane didn't know what to say or do, and neither did the African American. He played with the Nurburg 460 pullman keys in his coat pockets, the jingle echoing through the damp cemetery. She took a deep breath.

"Well, you heard ma. She thinks the Irish done Frankie." He nodded wordlessly. She paused. "You think it got anything to do with, you know..."

"Paddy?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Probably. That was a nasty number we pulled on him last summer, and I'll wager both my arms he hasn't forgiven you for that. That was one hell of a hole and a drop you gave him."

"He pulled a gun on me, what did he expect me to do?" She replied, frowning.

"Give up."

They shared a look.

"I don't think he'd kill someone so close to ma for a bullet in his side." She retorted. "Even if he _did_ fall twenty feet."

"Them Irish crazy, you don't know what they'd pull."

She gazed at him, chocolate brown eyes boring into his soul, but he did not pull back or look away. He was sure of his last statement.

"I wonder if our druggie boy's doing anything tonight." She commented. "He has to know _something_. He works for us and them." His eyes shone in excitement.

"We shaking up a Rondo?"

"Hell yeah. We'll drop ma off at the bar first, and then you and me?" She smiled. "We're going out on the town tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

**Rondo IS out of character, I realize that, but I needed a sleazy dealer, so…**

**Also, there is quite a bit of swearing in this chapter. Heads up!**

"I've never met a seller who buys from a buyer." The black man smirked. "What's up with that, Vanilla?"

"I'm not here to buy back, Rondo." Jane Rizzoli crossed her arms. Next to her, Barry Frost, her friend and partner, rolled his eyes. Rondo, Boston's main man in alcohol and drug distribution and purchases, was a sketchy man. He did not dress well, he didn't smell very good, but he fit in perfectly with the seedy and sleazy of the city, the ones the Rizzolis could not, and would not, ever associate with.

Frost and Jane had crossed every dark corner of Boston to get to the dimly lit Merch, Rondo's own establishment, a well known bar to both the populace and the cops. The place was a sleazy as the owner was, all grime and soot, but the patrons didn't mind much. The place had girls that kissed each other and booze, they didn't have much room to complain.

His face fell. "Oh. You here 'bout Frankie." He shrugged his shoulders. Jane wondered how his clothes still hung onto his thin frame, tattered and ragged as they were. "I had nothing to do with it."

"I would hope not." Jane snapped. She paced around the small backroom of Rondo's home. The décor was very much like its proprietor, drab, about to fall to pieces, in serious need of detox. She turned back to face him, and his gaze followed the gun strapped to his side. "How's business with the Irish?"

"Come on, Vanilla. Y'know I can't tell you about another dealer. That'd be bad trade for me." He laughed and leaned against the table, the shabby wood creaking underneath his weight. "You crazy." Her eyes narrowed.

In a blur, Frost's fist connected with Rondo's jaw, and the man dropped to a heap on the floor. "Answer her!" He barked. "_Respect!_"

"Shit man." Rondo fingered his swelling jaw. "Keep your dog on a leash. Damn. I think he broke something."

"If he had, you wouldn't be able to talk." Jane's eyebrow raised in amusement. She picked the man up and sat him down heavily in a nearby chair. "The Irish, Rondo."

"Fuck Rizzoli, I don't know. I haven't seen a drop of booze since last Sunday. Seven whole days. I'm running dry."

"He can count." Frost remarked.

"Sunday?" Jane kneeled down, face to face with the dealer. "Their boys run a tight ship. Is Cavanaugh not delivering for them anymore?"

Rondo giggled. "You guys call yourself underground, but you know chicken shit about what's going on 'round town." Jane hit him upside the head lightly, cutting him and his wheeze of a laugh off.

"Stop getting off topic."

"Stop hitting me, I'll tell you." He brought his hand up to shield himself. "I'm guessing it has to do with the death. They're probably taking a break and letting good folks like me starve." He shook his head.

"Death?"

"Yeah. Doyle's sister in law got popped last Sunday as she left church. Three shots. Bam bam bam. God didn't help her out in the end after all."

Next to her, Frost winced. "Why haven't we heard about this?"

"Unlike you Italians, them Irish stay low and off the map. You guys are on the front page every morning."

"And yet the police don't seem to want to touch either of us. We're just more glitzy." Frost shrugged.

"Who'd want her dead?" Jane asked.

"Constance? Hell, everyone with a bone to pick with Paddy." Rondo smirked. "They think it was you though. I heard they cut off all contact with the peeps who work for both of yous. Which is why I ain't had nothing to drink for a damn week. When's Crowe gonna get over here with your shipment?"

"Why do they think it was our hit?" She asked, quickly becoming annoyed.

"The killer left a present. A signature."

"Which was?"

He grinned. "A pipe wrench."

Jane cocked her head to the side, a small smile playing on her lips. Next to her, Frost froze.

"Funny, ain't it?" Rondo asked, winking at her. She nodded.

"Hilarious."

Her boot slammed into the end of his chair, flipping him head over heels. The wood chattered as it hit the stone floor, and Rondo landed on his back, wind knocked out of him. She straddled him.

Jane slapped him hard across the face, and her free hand reached out to grab his collar before he scrambled away. Her fist slammed into his gut, doubling him over where he sat. She hit him again and again and again, seeing red. She knew he was starting to tenderize, knew she'd broken a rib or three. There was a cracked tooth, and his knee popped out where she held him down with her own leg.

"Jane."

She elbowed him on the side of his face.

"_Jane!_"

She was pulled away by a frantic Frost, and she regarded the bloody mess that was Rondo on the floor with a glare that could easily have killed what was rest of the dealer. She reached for her gun, but Barry beat her to it, and snatched it away from her.

"You're a _fucking liar_! Take it back you son of a bitch!" She yelled.

On the floor, blood pooling out of his mouth, Rondo laughed through his broken face.

**Reviews are my bread and butter, my dear demons!**

**I'd love to know if you liked this chapter.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Come on guys! Reviews! Love! I needs it! My precious reviewssssss my precioussss revieewwwwwsssss.**

Jane retched on the pavement.

_Jane had been on this Earth for twelve years, and had never, not once, heard her mother raise her voice at her father. Sure, her pa yelled at her all the time, but she had never rose back against him, never dared to look up from the floor. To her, that small token of respect from her ma proved that her parents were the most perfect couple in the world, for all she'd seen of it. Bobby Gazzo's mom had talked back, and ended up at the bottom of the river. No. Her ma was smart. She survived. And together, her parents ruled Boston. Perfectly. _

_So she was astonished, yet curious, when she heard her mother's voice carry through the halls of her home. She listened at the door, all curly hair and skinned knees, but wasn't able to hear what was going on. It was past midnight, and she knew she should have been in bed, but her mother's rising octaves roused her out from underneath her covers. _

_She tiptoed down the hall, taking care to avoid the floorboards she knew creaked and her younger brother's door. But she walked boldly past Tommy's, he was already awake, his black little eyes watching her make her way down the corridor. She shushed him as she trudged past. He slightly nodded. _

_She poked her head in every room she could, trying to find the source of the voices, until she peered inside her father's study. _

_The room was usually off limits to Jane and her brothers, locked, the key deep in her pa's pocket, but tonight, in some sign short of a miracle, the door was wide open, the lights on. She now knew her parents were arguing from down the stairs, but the temptation was too great, and anyway, she could clearly tell the argument was far from over. They could wait, this could not._

_The burgundy room was lined with newspapers, feats and victories sorely won by the Rizzolis, and her little heart swelled with pride at the sight. The back wall was tapestried by a map of Boston with color coded pins dotting the streets and back alleys. On the floor, by the enormous desk, sat a plain box. She bent down next to it and uncovered the flaps, finding inside a mountain of pipe wrenches. Her gaze broke away from the metal bars to glance at the newspapers. Now that she really looked, she noticed most of the victims in the black and white pictures had such an instrument lodged in their throats, protruding and ghastly to look at. Her hand fell away from the box. It was his signature, she knew that much, but to see it…was simply too much for her to take in. _

_She followed her ma's voice again._

_And found her ma and pa in the aptly named great hall. Her mother was slouched against the door, pointing an accusing finger at her husband, Francesco Senior. Jane's father held a duffel bag in one hand, his hat in another. _

_"I have put up with your whoring ways for thirty years, Frank Rizzoli!" Angela thundered."But so help me God, if you leave me tonight-"_

_He stared her down calmly. "Move aside, Angela."_

_"You will not leave me for that_ slut!"

_"She has a name." He sighed, and shouldered past her. "I'd like it if you used it. I'm going to marry her soon."_

_"You'd divorce me on top of this insult?" Angela cried out. _

_"Yes." He shrugged his trench coat on._

_"You'd leave me for this, this Lydia." His wife stammered. "A girl of fifteen. Have I become too old? Too fat? Too gray?"_

_Frank Sr. didn't answer her._

_"You won't leave me."_

_His hand landed on the front door's knob. Angela reached over to the small table by the sofa, her fingers wrapped around the wrench he had left there the night before. He turned abruptly._

_"Angela-"_

_The first blow smashed him across the jaw, and he dropped to the Turkish rug, blood pooling out from between his teeth. The second shattered him between the eyes, but Angela Rizzoli was not done. She hit him again and again, his face becoming a bloody, pulpy mess. The arms shielding his face became weaker and weaker until he wasn't fighting back anymore. His screams had died down to whimpers, and then, nothing._

_Angela turned to look straight into Jane's eyes._

"My father's been dead for twenty years Frost." Jane looked up into her friend's black eyes, her sleeve wiping the side of her mouth. "He didn't kill her. He couldn't have."

Frost crossed his arms. "Then who did, Jane?"

She shook her head. "I don't know…"

**Across town…**

Maura Isles stood awkwardly in her father's parlor, the guests milling about her, most stone faced, some with the decency to look grieved. They spoke in hushed whispers, as if the dead could hear them from where they were on Beacon Hill, miles from where they had buried her aunt. And watching these men and women she barely knew or had never met, she realized she couldn't take much more of this. Knew that at one point her heart would take over her head and she'd have to break down and cry out all the tears she'd held in through the funeral. But now was not the right moment, or the right scene, for Maura Isles, Paddy Doyle's daughter, to break down and cry. She knew that too. _Never let them see you weak._

It was easier said than done. Her aunt had taken care of her for most of her young life, her own mother always too busy to notice her. When her father had told her the news, she had merely gaped at him, unable to believe him, not _wanting_ to believe him. She was accustomed to death, and she was far from stupid, but it took her a day to realize that Constance was not coming back.

Her father had sat a few seats from hers at the memorial, one hand clutched around Hope Isles's, his wife, the other crushing his hat in anger. His face was a mask made of what seemed like stone. No one would see him weak, and she had taken strength from his resolve. But even his could not help her now.

She spied Sean Cavanaugh across the room, fingering his champagne glass gingerly. He was, she had learned, trying to stop his addiction to alcohol for the sake of his ailing wife. She learned in that moment that it was not working, and shook her head as he started to drink deeply from the crystal glass, his hand reaching for another.

Next to him, Darren Crowe leaned against a tainted window, the midnight hour behind him shadowing his features. His eyes peeled across the room, landing once in a while on a pretty lady. He would lick his lips, and then his eyes would keep moving across the room. Maura shivered. She'd heard the worst stories about this man and what he had done to women when he decided to lick his lips.

A hand landed on her elbow, and she turned slightly to gaze into Ian's eyes.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'll be alright."

"The hives breaking out yet?"

"It wasn't a lie. I'll be alright." She stressed, and wrenched her arm away from his grip. He sighed and stuffed his hands in his pantsuit pockets.

"I'm sorry. It's been a long week."

Ian only raised an eyebrow, and Maura took his hand in hers. "I'm sorry." She repeated.

"I know. But you have every right to be short of temper."

"No, I don't. Constance wouldn't have wanted me to be angry and short tempered."She gazed up into his eyes, and found the sadness there, the love waiting to comfort her, and she found herself falling in love with him all over again. He had held her when she'd first found out. He'd endured through her hours of screaming and wailing and objects being thrown. And still he stood at her side, arms wide open, uncaring that she became ugly and abrasive when provoked.

"Maura." He cleared his throat. "Your father and mother want to see you."

She sighed. "I had guessed as much. They weren't here to receive our guests."

"Do you want me to-?"

"No, that's alright, Ian. I'll go up there myself."

**So now you've met Maura's little crew, and found the explanation to Jane's…temper…in the last chapter.**

**I really ****_would_**** like to know what you guys thought, either with a review or a favorite, nudge nudge wink wink? Or heck, follow it, so I know you want more!**

**Who are we kidding? I'll write even if you lot throw stones at me!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Don't forget to read my comments at the bottom, they might prove illuminating, who knows? Heck, I ain't no pope. *guffaw***

_ "Aunt Constance?"_

_The redhead turned to face her niece, her hand freezing in mid air as she reached for a bedtime story. "What is it, darling?"_

_"Why do you take care of me?"_

_Constance sighed, and her arm fell to her side. She moved Maura's legs over and sat down on the girl's bed, taking time to rearrange her covers as she mulled over the question._

_"Well, your mother has a lot of work to do." She answered simply. "And I love you."_

_"Does mother not love me?"_

_"She does." Constance smiled softly. "In her own way."_

_Maura's eyebrows knitted in confusion. "I was walking in the basement today."_

_Constance cocked her head to the side. "Were you?"_

_"Yes." The little blonde nodded, her curls bouncing up and down. "And I heard two men talking. One was father, and the other, I'm not sure. I didn't recognize him."She paused. "They said "Constance's daughter. Many times." Next to her, her aunt looked down at her shoes._

_"You have a daughter?" Maura asked, sitting up in bed. She folded her hands in her lap, waiting patiently, a gleam in her hazel eyes._

_"I do." Constance smiled weakly. _

_"Why do you take care of me, but not of her?"_

_"I did, once." The woman pushed a strand of hair back behind her niece's ear. "She was very much like you. She had long, curly blonde hair, and an easy smile." She took a deep breath. "But she made a mistake. Something she shouldn't have. And one day she left. I haven't seen her since."_

_"Do you miss her?"_

_"Terribly."_

_"She must have had a reason!"The little girl protested._

_"She did."_

_The blonde bit the inside of her cheek, she knew she wasn't going to get a straight answer. She never did. Instead, she smiled. "I'll never leave you, Aunt Constance. I promise."_

"You saw the pictures."

Paddy Doyle's back was to her, his shoulders hunched over in defeat or determination, she couldn't tell.

Maura had seen the photos. In them, her aunt was sprawled on the sidewalk, blood and guts spilling out. It was grotesque, ghastly to look at, but she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from the photograph and its protruding muscles and bones.

"Yes. I did." She murmured.

"Pike finally ruled it a homicide."

She snorted. "Pike's a bloody fool. Anyone with a pair of eyes could have told you that a week ago."

He ignored her outburst. "He said the wrench was the object that killed her. She drowned in her own blood." A sob escaped from the corner of the room. Maura was astonished to find Hope, her mother, standing there. She hadn't noticed her, she usually didn't. Hope was always so easily lost in the throng that inhabited the household. Paddy turned to his wife, and landed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You should go to bed. You're tired." He whispered to her. She nodded once, shakily, then a second time as if to convince herself before moving past Maura, barely acknowledging her, and leaving the room. The door shut behind her with a click.

"She's shaken up by this." Paddy said, his own voice thick with exhaustion.

"We all are." Maura replied quietly. She pitied her mother. The once amazing woman that could single handedly have lead a team of men into the thick of it was now only a shell of her former self. Always tired, always depressed. She watched her father carefully for the same sign of weakness, then prompted him. "Pike?"

"Yes." He shook his head. "He was able to properly go over her body himself before the rest of his department could." He picked up a manila folder and threw it over her desk to her. She picked it up and leafed through it as he continued. "Three shots to the stomach, a pipe wrench to the throat."

"This makes no sense. They haven't used a pipe wrench as their signature in over twenty years."

"It's never too late to honor a father." Paddy responded.

These pictures she hadn't seen before and she pondered over them almost greedily. Every shot was of her aunt at a different angle, body on a cold slab in the Boston Police Department's morgue. In some, Pike's hand or a wayward shot of his blurry face ruined the photographs, and at those she couldn't help herself from grimacing and frowning in disgust. The last page was Constance's report, and her hazel eyes scanned the sheet of paper quickly.

"He changed her name." A manicured finger ran over a line that had been blacked out in pen and rewritten. Her eyebrow shot up. "So _that's_ why we held a service for Marisol Gray."

Paddy growled. "It was better that way. After Joey's monumental screw up last year, I couldn't risk us being in the spotlight again. If the police got a whiff of this, they'd hit us when we're vulnerable."

"Can't have that happening." She muttered.

He gave her a hard stare. "Damn right we can't." She threw the folder back at him, which he caught easily.

"What do we do now?"

"We get back at the Rizzolis for this."

Maura stared at him, puzzled. "We already did."

"Excuse me?" Paddy's gaze finally left the window to glare at her. Whereas hers were a warm hazel, his were ice blue, unforgiving and unyielding. She found herself involuntarily taking a step back, her hip hitting the oaken lamp table by the door.

"Frankie Rizzoli."

"What of him?"

"He's dead."

He bristled, his shoulders hunching up underneath his suit. "_Come again_?"

She licked her lips. "He's dead, father. Last Tuesday." _How does he not know? Why wasn't he told? Why in the name of all that is holy am _I _the one telling him this? _"Shot in the head."

His eyes had broken from hers, and he now stared at his desk, color mounting up into his cheeks. "Did you order this?" He asked quietly.

"No." _Never. I value my life. I know not to try and run anything past you._ She failed to add.

"One of the boys?"

"Not that I know of." She took a deep breath, her heart racing in her ears. "I thought you-, I mean-"

His fist hit the desk, and she heard the wood splinter beneath his flesh as she jumped in surprise. She blinked rapidly. "Father-"

"Someone _dared_ to kill a Rizzoli without my permission?" His voice thundered and boomed around the small room.

Her voice betrayed her. "I don't know. I don't-." She hadn't asked to be born his daughter. Hadn't asked for the money and the dread that came with her name. She hadn't asked to be pulled out of university for this; she would rather have stayed there, comfortable as she was. She certainly hadn't asked to be the messenger tonight.

And it was in moments like these that she truly feared her father.

**Early the next morning…**

"Why would they hit Frankie?"

Jane exchanged a glance with Barry Frost. The team that had assembled around her that morning before dawn had been privy to Constance's death, but not that she had been finished off with a pipe wrench. The black man shrugged at her.

"Most likely because they think we popped Constance." She replied carefully.

The man who had asked the question snorted. "Damn Irish and their assuming." He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He never was. Enemy fire through his spine during the Great War had rendered Casey Jones's legs and everything _else_ below his waist useless, and everything above it an endless ball of over excited nerves. He was still the best marksman Jane Rizzoli had ever seen.

"She's just a sister in law, too. Who cares about sisters in law?" Giovanni asked from his corner. He raised his eyebrows in question. "If we were gonna kill somebody, we woulda killed someone important. Obviously."

"Everyone is important to a leader of men, Giovanni." Gabriel Dean muttered from across the room. He barely glanced up from his nails as he cleaned them with his knife. "You might say the same of Ma. 'Frankie's just her son. Who cares about a son'?" He glanced up at Jane, and she nodded at him.

"So what do we do?"

"We get back at the Irish." Jane responded breezily.

"Their house is a fortress." Casey snorted. "Armed guards around the clock, scent hounds, a ten foot barbed wire gate that's been conveniently disguised as an outer wall. You'd have better chance of breaking into Fort Knox."

She grinned. "Who said anything about breaking in?"

Gabriel leaned forward, a smile grazing his otherwise static face. "What are you thinking, Rizzoli?"

**I'm sorry this chapter is so…bleh, but I needed a transition, so…to appease you, here's a little taste for the next chapter ;) **

**"Jane's mask itched terribly, but she kept her arms at her side as the guard patted her down a little bit too vigorously. Instead of dwelling on his roaming hands and the many ways she could have stopped his heart, she thought of her happy place. One that involved beer and women. **

**She knew for certain one of those dreams would come true tonight; the Irish never left their guests down."**

**Props to those who figure out the murderer. But I don't think you will, at least, not yet. It's pretty complicated in my own head, I can't imagine yours. I hope my words are flowing as well on the page as they are in my daydreams.**

**Reviews make my world go round! I treasure each one, and grow and learn with every word you write to me.**


	5. Chapter 5

**So I know it's been a while, but I wanted to wait until St Patrick's to update. Thank you for all the kind words! They make my mornings (: **

Jane's mask itched terribly, but she kept her arms at her side as the guard patted her down a little bit too vigorously. Instead of dwelling on his roaming hands and the many ways she could have stopped his heart, she thought of her happy place. One that involved beer and women.

She knew for certain one of those dreams would come true tonight; the Irish, after all, never let their guests down.

Every year, as it was known around Boston, the Doyle-Isles clan hosted a St. Patrick's Day celebration. An invitation only party, really, but the group of men outside had easily given Jane and her troupe the cards they needed to get in. They wouldn't need them anytime soon.

The guard let her through, moving on to quickly pat Giovanni down. Jane watched, amused, as the Italian mechanic shifted his hips and cocked his eyebrow suggestively at the man. Gilberti had this down to a science now. No man would ever look twice at you if they thought you were a homosexual. They moved on.

Jane had never been inside the mansion, but knew from the outside that it had to be a majestic abode and much bigger than her own, which was already nicely sized. But the inside was larger than she'd imagined. The lobby had been impressive, but the sitting room was just gorgeous. The curtains were a deep green and opaque, the windows behind them twice her height. The couches were ornate, a richer emerald than the drapes, with gold studs all around. Where she had carpet in her house, the mansion had mahogany floor boards. None were scuffed, and she could practically see her reflection in them.

A man in a dark tuxedo waltzed past her and she managed to grab a champagne glass off his tray before he turned the sharp corner to the library. From behind her flute, she let her eyes wander over the room. The furniture didn't matter as much as the people there.

The mayor was there, talking with the Russian mogul that owned the bay. His was a dirty business, cheap vodka and little girls. She wondered if the elderly man knew the Russian could break his head with just a slight squeeze of his massive fists. Across from that was a Hispanic she knew she'd seen before. She was pretty sure she'd shot at him before too. Was he the one that had clipped her wing? She honestly couldn't remember.

Barry Frost appeared at her elbow. "We're in, Jane." He remarked, his hands tugged nervously at his mask.

"We are." She grinned. "That looks good on you." She nodded at his disguise. He blushed behind it.

"Frost, you got the library. Giovanni, stay in here, keep tabs on who goes in and who gets out. Casey's got the windows covered from across the park. Gabriel's already in here. Somewhere_._" She gazed at each of them in turn. "I'll be looking around for the safe." She added. "Whatever happens, _do not let Paddy near me._"

Giovanni pushed past her and quickly mingled with the minxes in the room. Frost gave her elbow a squeeze and disappeared through the double doors at the other end of the room.

No one paid attention to the tall raven haired woman climbing the stairs two at a time. If they could even tell she was a woman. Her wardrobe of choice tonight had been a simple black suit, her unruly hair in a tight ponytail, complete with the golden mask Rondo had lent her. He'd winced at her arrival, and practically thrown the garment at her. She had noticed his bruises were not healing well.

The top floor of the mansion was much less ornate than the ground floor. Here, the walls were bare save for a few paintings, a few doors. The burgundy carpet disguised her footsteps, and she guessed, just as well as it did the blood. She could hear muffled voices from behind a few closed rooms, gasps and grunts and moans. Apparently, some were trying their merchandise before buying. She couldn't help the scowl that found its way onto her features.

"What does an important door look like?" She wondered aloud.

Her plan had been simple enough. She certainly wasn't a killer; she didn't want to get back at Doyle by the means of a smoking gun. But she knew he cared very much about his money, his estates. She'd break in, grab a couple of thousands, and get out before the night was over. The boys had agreed. This was quick, this was easy, no blood would be shed. If she could just find his office.

She heard voices climbing the stairs to her right, and she cringed. Her head whipped back and forth as she tried to find somewhere to hide, but there were no windows here, no curtains. Just doors. She grabbed the nearest handle and was ecstatic to find it unlocked. She barged in.

There in the dark, she waited, holding her breath.

**R&IR&IR&IR&I**

"Is it me, or there are more people than last year?"

"Most likely." Maura replied, shrugging her shoulders. "I believe it's the Russians first time at one of these…functions." Ian nodded sagely.

Functions. If she hadn't been in a room full of people, the blonde would have laughed aloud. This was not a party. Not even a get together. No. It was a meeting, some in the crowd knew it, most didn't. But those who did had quite the arsenal to their names.

Alcohol. Drugs. Weapons. Sex slaves, both men and women. She'd heard the big hairy one say something about a nine year old. She couldn't stomach it, and yet she stayed in her corner, nursing her drink. Ian stood beside her as always, a hand on her lower back, to hold her up or to keep her back, she wasn't sure. Her father hadn't arrived yet, he was still upstairs and most likely in his office, gazing down at them from behind his curtains. She tilted her head upwards and imagined herself staring back at his cold blue eyes, but all there was were drapes. Her mother hadn't joined the party at all, had called on a headache instead. Maura knew it was for the best.

"You alright?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Yes, I'm fine." She swirled the golden liquid in her flute. "I think I'm buzzed though. It _is_ St Patrick's, after all. I've been drinking since I got up."

Ian's face darkened. "Why?"

"This." Her other hand swept the room and its occupants. "No one with a sane mind would ever go into a shindig like this without a drink in their hand."

"You know that's no good for you."

She gazed back at him. Sometimes she forgot he was _Doctor _Ian. She knew, deep down, that he only said these things because he cared for her. She would drink if she felt like it. She had to. The alcohol fueled her on, and she had a retort at the tip of her tongue, but she stopped herself. Maura Isles was known for keeping her calm. Instead, she said nothing, and her arm dropped back to her side. His own hands were empty, except for the grip he had on her flesh, and that bothered her to no end.

"Oh, look." His face split into a grin, his own irritation forgotten. "Here comes Fernando." The Puerto Rican man made his way over to them, elbowing others out of the way.

"Maura! Ian!"His own grin battled Ian's for supremacy. Maura didn't like him much; he was known to employ children in his factories back in his country. Many went in, few went out whole. She shifted from foot to foot anxiously.

"Fernando. How are you?" She held out her hand, and he kissed her fingers lightly.

"Quite good, actually. Business is good." Fernando's eyes raked over Maura hungrily. "You know darling, I've been looking everywhere for your father to attend to some…_business_, but he seems to be absent from his own party."

"Mother has a headache, he is simply making sure she's comfortable before heading down." She assured him with a tight smile. "I could go look for him, if you'd like?"

He nodded.

Her breath came back to her as she headed up the stairs. The room below was simply too crowded, full of smoke, full of sins. But she herself was no saint, was she? She'd done her share of transgressions. She had killed before, not directly, but she certainly hadn't helped. Against all her morals, she hadn't helped. More than once. When she closed her eyes, she fancied that she could see every one of their faces, there in the dark.

Ian caught up quickly. "Where are you going?" He hissed, grabbing onto her wrist. "He said not to bother him."

"I know." She turned to face him. From where she was, she was taller than him. She enjoyed the feeling. "I just needed to get away for a few moments."

"They're just people." He said.

"Yes. People who murder. Steal. Rape." She replied quietly.

He smiled sadly. "That's your entire life, and you're not used to it?"

"You are?" The blonde raised an eyebrow. "People die by your side every day. You swore an oath, and yet you kill as easily as you breathe. How do you live with yourself?" The alcohol was speaking for her now. She knew what she was saying, knew it was wrong, but she couldn't stop her voice from leaving her throat. "Aren't you ashamed?" She added softly.

He grimaced at her. The look he gave her was one of pity mixed with disappointment, very much like the ones Paddy would give her. "You're…you're still young, Maura. You'll learn." She ignored him and climbed the stairs, slightly satisfied that he did not follow her up.

She opened the door to her room, and found herself face to face with gold.

**Hmm. I'll stop here, because it's bedtime for me, really. I'll try to update soon! I'm so sorry!**

**Reviews are loved, as always (:**


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm so sorry it took me SO LONG (an eternity, really) to update. I had homework, I went back to the home country for Spring Break, and I got utterly depressed because of college decisions (SIX NO's. I MEAN REALLY.) AND on top of that, I asked this really pretty girl I like out on a date and I got shot down. Nicely. But still.**

**My muse left me.**

**But now she's back! Enjoy!**

**(Also, the two might be a bit out of character since I wanted to add animosity. Oops?)**

What Maura had expected was definitely not this. She jumped back slightly in fright, barely registering the slamming door, her eyes frozen on the dark ones staring at her from behind the golden mask. The light was flipped on. Her brain did not make contact with the rest of her body anymore though; the alcohol certainly did not help, and she found herself with her mouth open, no sound coming out, her legs feeling like cotton. All she could see was the gun pointed at her stomach. But, despite her terror, her mind raced a hundred miles a minute.

Certainly, if the assailant pulled the trigger, she'd be hit point blank. The bullet would bite through soft skin, her lower intestine, either lodging deep into a vertebrae or three, or going straight through her, in and out, ending up in the wall behind her.

She'd die.

_Or I'll be paralyzed for life if my father's men find me quickly enough. _

She couldn't decide which would be worse.

"There's no need to shoot." She said quietly, her voice surprisingly calm.

This time, the bullet hit her between the eyes, went through her the tissue of her brain. Her gray matter would splatter all over the door along with blood and bits of her cranium, clumps of her golden hair. She would die instantly, feel almost no pain, see only a bright flash and a loud bang, and it'd be over. She internally wished that the woman in front of her would bring the gun's barrel to rest on her forehead.

There, maybe, she could disarm her attacker.

Their gazes held, unwavering, chocolate against her own hazel. For what she could see under the mask, the woman's face was angular and chiseled, yet somehow still handsome enough. Her dark curls were pulled back in a tight, unforgiving ponytail, her grip on the gun firm and steady. She had obviously used a weapon before.

"Whatever you want, I'm sure I can get it. My family is very prominent-"

"Shut up." The woman snapped.

Maura's face contracted in annoyance. "How dare you shush me?" The blonde replied harshly.

"I'm holding the gun, aren't I?" The olive skinned girl smirked. Maura was surprised by the dark timber her voice took, the way it rasped, and those dimples. She was more feminine than she had originally thought. She steeled herself.

"But you are still in my home. It's one thing to threaten me, another entirely to tell me to be quiet in such a cruel way."

The brunette's face fell. "You've got to be kidding me." She closed her eyes, her other hand coming up to massage her jaw. "The one person I fall on-."

Maura abruptly reached for the gun, but was thrown back against the wall by the woman's sharp shoulder. The honey blonde found herself trapped against the door by the woman's taller body, the gun now to her temple. The brunette definitely had amazing musculature, and she could attest any day, what with the slim thigh between her own legs and the strong arm enveloped around her waist.

"Cute."

She angled her head up to stare at the mask, the grin beneath it. She did not smile back.

"I'd be much obliged if you let go of me." She responded icily.

The woman ignored her. "Say, you look like someone I should know." Another smirk graced her features. "Blonde, hazel green eyes, wearing a killer pair of heels." She tapped her chin with the tip of her gun. "Could you be the Queen of the Dead?"

"Only if you're Jane Rizzoli."

"Bingo." Jane winked. "My, you _are_ intelligent. Did you know before or after I stuck the gun in your face?"

**R&IR&IR&IR&I**

Maura Isles smiled at Jane, and the Italian couldn't help but see the hatred in the blonde's face.

"You shot my aunt."

"Actually-"

Jane wasn't able to finish her sentence. The doctor's head connected with her chin with a force that sent her thoughts spinning and little stars shining. Her arms fell from the woman's slim waist and she was pushed back by slender arms. She sprawled down onto the floor; the gun skidding a few feet to her side, and it was nowhere near enough for her to reach now. When she opened her eyes again after a series of confused blinks, the blonde was straddling her waist and holding a scalpel to her neck. Jane wasn't sure of where it'd come from.

"_You shot my aunt_."

"Put the scalpel down, Doctor Death." Jane held a hand up. "I didn't touch a hair on her pretty head."

"The pipe wrench!" Isles yelled. "How dare you tell me that you didn't kill her?" She wielded the sharp instrument forward, threatening to break skin.

"It's not my signature." Jane insisted. "_Put that thing down._" The growl she threw Maura's way was enough to stop the blonde in her tracks. As if seeing it for the first time, the woman on top of her grimaced and threw it across the room, but did not relinquish her hold on the Italian. Her whole body trembled as she tried to regain her composure.

"You didn't kill her." Maura breathed.

"You believe me?"

"I can tell, your eyes, body movements, don't hold up to someone who would lie." The blonde explained breezily, keeping her eyes trained on a faraway point. "We didn't kill Frankie."

Jane gaped at her. "Come again?"

"We didn't kill your little brother. At least, my father didn't order it."

"Then who the fuck did?"

"Language, Rizzoli." Isles snapped. Jane sat up abruptly, catching the blonde with an arm before she fell off.

"This is all a misunderstanding."

The blonde on her lap laughed weakly. "It appears so." The Italian threw her off her lap and stood up.

"Then I'm getting outta here before I get my head taken off."

"But-" Maura gasped. "You can't just- We need to figure this out!"

"Not together we don't. These murders-"She pointed to herself then the doctor. "Aren't related."

A sharp knock hit the door.

Jane jumped slightly, and she absently reached for her gun, disappointed not to find it in its usual place. Maura stood up, tittering on her heels, and watched as wood slowly opened.

Darren Crowe stepped through, blood bubbling out of his mouth, and he fell to the floor with a dull sound, a knife in his back.

Korsak addressed Jane, choosing to ignore, or not seeing, the blonde. "Let's go, we've been spotted."

**Cue the Jane Rizzoli Wince. **

**I know, I know, short chapter. But I needed another death and…goodbye Crowe.**

**The girls know they haven't killed each other's families, but now that the Rizzolis truly ****_have_**** fucked everything up, what'll happen?**

**I'll try to update quickly…**

**Reviews?**


	7. Chapter 7

**There's your update for you. Sorry. I'm terrible at updating. My muse actually HASN'T really come back, I lied last time. I'm in a slight funk. **

**But I'd like to thank you all for all your encouraging words of wisdom and love sent my way, it means a whole lot.**

**Also, would you guys be interested in reading a Rizzoli and Isles/Game of Thrones fic? I have the whole story outlined out, and they characters fit BEAUTIFULLY with and into each other. I just need a yay or a nay.**

The car engine roared underneath them as they made their way out into the dark streets of Boston. Frost was reaching dangerous speeds, his fists clenched on the steering wheel.

"You stabbed him." The dark haired woman spat. "_Idiot!_"

Korsak winced, and whined, hardly turning around in his seat. "We need someplace to hide her, Janie."

"_We wouldn't need somewhere to hide her if you hadn't killed him_!"

Next to Jane, gagged and bound, Maura Isles rolled her eyes.

The Rizzoli heiress had barely given time for Darren's body to hit the floor before she'd grabbed the honey blonde and dragged her to the second story window.

"_Jump_!" She had hissed, and Maura had gaped at her, unruly curls and all. Impatiently, Jane had picked her up and thrown her over her shoulder before climbing out herself. Luckily for them both, there had been enough ivy covering the side of the mansion for Jane to make her way down to the green grass. Maura had just held on as tightly as she could.

She'd been gagged with the dirty rag as soon as her feet had touched the ground, and pushed into the sleek black car by Korsak, complete with a small "sorry" as her head had hit the top of the vehicle. And she had listened intently as the conversations carried on outside, her eyes widening slightly as Jane brandished her gun around and in Korsak's face. _These people are insane._

She mumbled behind the cloth, and Jane turned to glare at her.

"What she saying?" Frost asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

The eldest Rizzoli undid the knot, and Maura took a long, deep breath, unsure for how long her liberated breathing would last. "I said, there's nowhere you can hide me without my father finding you."

"She got a bit of a mouth." Korsak grimaced.

"Yeah." Jane smirked. "Any suggestions, princess?"

"Why would I tell you where to hide me?" Maura scowled. "I want to go home. _Now._"

"No matter, Rizzoli." Frost glanced back. "We can hide her at Merch."

Jane shook her head. "That's the first place they'd look."

"The Robber?"

Korsak turned to Frost. "It's been shut for years."

"Exactly."

Maura followed the looks going from person to person in the car, puzzled. "What's a Robber?"

Maura quickly learned, on their way there, that 'The Robber' was really 'The Dirty Robber', and old place of the Rizzoli's that she'd only ever heard of. She knew it'd been in service when she was but a child, Constance still alive, her mother still sane, but it'd been condemned for her twelfth birthday. She remembered. Paddy had missed the party to attend the shutdown of the establishment.

It wasn't much.

The windows were barred, the door shut and trapped on its rusting hinges. It looked dusty from the outside, and from the inside, it was much, much worse. The furniture had been covered with white sheets years prior, but now they were a grimy gray. The second floor loomed overhead and, to Maura, threatened to fall inwards with every step they took into the bar room.

Jane beamed proudly at her. "Boston's first and finest speakeasy." She pointed to the stage. "Over there, Pretty Riley used to dance every night. I spent hours watching her."

"Didn't we all." Frost winked.

"And dad used to serve the drinks up here." She patted the bar underneath her hands almost lovingly. Maura watched her, astounded that this perfect stranger and rival was telling her her life story, and not throwing her inside a dark, damp closet, like she'd been before. Jane continued strolling around the room, pointing here and there as she continued rambling. The honey blonde just stared.

"Why are you doing this?" She brusquely blurted.

The Italian turned to her, a lopsided grin on her face. "Doing what?"

"Being nice to me. You gagged me barely an hour ago."

"Only because you wouldn't shut up." Jane shrugged. Maura caught Korsak and Frost leaving in the corner of her eye. Rizzoli took a step closer to her. "And I'm not in a tiff with _you_, just your daddy."

"We didn't kill Frankie."

"So you said earlier, but do you have proof?"

"How do I know you didn't kill Constance?"

"Because I said I didn't." Jane glared back into Maura's hazel eyes. Neither backed off.

"The pipewrench-"

"Isn't my signature. I don't have a signature." The dark haired woman shook her head. "I don't kill." _Ma does. _"I'm only in the drug and alcohol business. Frankie used to do the dirty business if it came to it. And he didn't shoot himself."

Maura sat down heavily in a leather armchair. Jane sat opposite of her, perched on the edge of her seat. The blonde noticed, but just moved back into her chair, massaging her temple.

A silent moment passed between them.

Jane played with the loose threads on her pants. "You really loved Constance, didn't you?"

"She was like my mother." Maura shut her eyes. "And I like her daughter. She had had one, but lost her. Lydia. She was blonde, like me." She opened her eyes. "How's your mother?"

The Italian bristled. "What do you care?"

"I'm not devoid of a heart, you know."

"She's upset." Jane muttered. "Her only boy, gone."

Maura glanced up. "I thought you had another brother? Thomas, was it?"

"Piece of shit." Rizzoli snapped. "He ran away with this girl a few years back. He stopped contacting us last year. Ma cried over him, him being her baby and everything…but she doesn't consider him part of the family. Not since she killed-" Jane snapped her mouth shut.

"Killed who?"

"Never mind." She pushed out of her chair and took a few steps around the room.

"Jane." Rizzoli whipped around to glare at the blonde. "Sit down."

She did.

"How did you get into the mansion?"

Jane shrugged half-heartedly. "Easily. We just grabbed some guys before they went in and took their invitations. Left 'em in the dumpster."

"What were you looking for?"

Jane's hard eyes met hers. "Proof."

"What kind?"

"The kind that'd make killing your father easier on my conscience."

"Oh."

The conversation at an end, they fell asleep there in their chairs, Maura dropping off soundly before Jane finally closed her eyes, sleeping a fitful sleep.

The honey blonde awoke first, the hazy light of dawn streaming through the broken boards over the windows. Jane sat curled in her chair, snoring away lightly. She turned her head, her eye catching on moving shadows.

"Jane." She whispered urgently. "There's someone here." The Italian didn't budge. And so the blonde held her breath as the sun's rays moved up into the back corner, too afraid to move.

A man's body hung there.

Her scream died in her throat.

**Another cliffhanger death! But who is it? Ah, I love killing off people.**

**But enough about me… Review and love me, please, because someone has to. **


End file.
